


Distance

by ebbj9891



Series: In Quest Of Something [1]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, POV Brian Kinney, POV Justin Taylor, POV Lindsay Peterson, POV Multiple, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1418952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebbj9891/pseuds/ebbj9891
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Normally when Brian calls, he says things like this and it feels like he's here. It feels like an embrace, like his arms are winding around me and holding me close. But tonight I feel completely stranded. I can feel every awful inch of distance between us, and fuck does it hurt."</p><p>Three months after moving to New York, Justin struggles with leaving Brian behind. Brian begins to realise Pittsburgh isn't where he ought to be anymore, but perhaps needs a nudge in the right direction. Enter Lindsay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Justin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After months of missing Brian, Justin finally breaks down and admits he's struggling.

"What are you wearing?"

Trust Brian to begin our conversation like that. As I register his flirty, filthy question, I burst out laughing and retort, "I'm grocery shopping and it's the middle of winter."

Slowly, and every word dripping with teasing, Brian murmurs, "That doesn't answer my question." 

"I'm trying to warn you that you're about to be sorely disappointed."

"I'm a big boy, Sunshine, I can handle it."

I glance down at myself and sigh, sensing that disappointment is imminent. "Sweats-"

" _Mmmm_..."

Laughing, I clarify, "Paint-covered sweats."

"Well then, you  _really_ ought to take them off, Sunshine. What's underneath?"

Before I can purr  _nothing at all,_ there's an alarming whirring and beeping in the background. Then a crash. Brian curses.

"Where are you?"

"The office," he growls. "Fucking printer is shot to shit."

"Working late again?"

"Trying to. Nothing's getting done."

"You might get more done if you weren't calling people for phone sex."

"Person," he says, then emphatically: "Singular. You."

"I wouldn't mind if it were plural. You might have better luck with someone who isn't standing in the middle of the soup aisle in painty sweats."

"Maybe," there's another crash and more cursing, then a spot of silence. "Or maybe I don't give a shit about that and I just wanted to talk to you."

He says this softly, like it's a secret. It is, I suppose. Brian's sexual preferences and proclivities might be known to all of Pittsburgh, but emotional intimacy? Affection? That's private. That's just for us. I think he'd cut his dick off before releasing any of our sweet nothings into the public domain. 

Normally when Brian calls, he says things like this and it feels like he's here. It feels like an embrace, like his arms are winding around me and holding me close. But tonight I feel completely stranded. I can feel every awful inch of distance between us, and  _fuck_ does it hurt.

There's an old woman standing next to me sifting through cans of pumpkin soup, and a little girl a few shelves down begging her mom for dinosaur noodles. They're not paying me any attention, but I can't stop noticing them. Their presence grates at me. I slip away to a distant corner of the store, where if I happen to break down, I can do so without attracting attention.

"Justin?"

"Yeah?"

"Talk to me."

I grab onto the shelf in front of me, stocked with endless cleaning supplies that I don't need, not when Brian pays for a cleaning lady to come every week ( _"You'll be too busy to clean, what with becoming a famous artiste. And missing me, of course. That'll take up a bunch of time."_ ) The metal surface of the shelf feels cool at first, but it starts to burn as my grip on it tightens and tightens. The brands of detergent blur as tears prick at my eyes. "This is harder than I thought it would be."

Brian takes a breath, almost starts to speak, and then takes another. Then he's just silent.

I force a laugh. "You must think I'm pathetic."

"No," he says, forcefully. "I was just thinking... thank _fuck_ you said it before I did. This is awful."

Awful. That word keeps coming back to me, all the time. I love it here, I love the city, I love the work I'm doing, I love the idea of where I could be headed with it, but then I realise how far away Brian is and I feel absolutely fucking awful. To know he feels the same... I'm so relieved I almost burst into tears. I do manage to keep myself from crying, but when I start to speak it still sounds like I'm talking through tears. "I miss you all the time. It's not just time, it's distance, and it's too much, and I'm not...  _fuck._ I want to come home. I'm going to come home."

"Don't be stupid," he all but snaps. "Just try and come back here, I'll march you right back to New York myself. I'll have TSA bundle you onto a plane and strap you down, just try me. You're _not_ coming back to Shitsburgh."

"So what do you suggest? That we each go on hating this? That we try and get used to it? Or-"

Before my suggestions turn truly dismal and utterly undesirable, Brian interjects, "I was going to suggest the 8.45 flight into JFK."

"You-- what?"

It suddenly occurs to me there hasn't been any whirring or crashing in the background for a while. There's street noise, though, a constant rush of it, like he's driving somewhere. "The 8.45, there's still seats left. Do you want me on it?"

"Yes!" It comes out louder than I mean it to. Brian laughs. I lower my voice and say, "Yes, please,  _please_ be on it."

"Good, because I'm already in a cab." I can  _hear_ him smirking. I wonder if he knows I'm about to cartwheel through the store. "I can only stay tonight. Is that-"

"It's fine!" My elated cry draws several stares from alarmed shoppers. I slap my hand over my mouth to muffle any further exclamations. Brian's laughing again.

"By the way, I fucking hate cabs. Don't make me catch another one. You're picking me up in a private car, okay, Sunshine?"

"Anything." I laugh out loud, realising I don't give a shit who's listening. "Anything, anything, anything!" _  
_

"Anything?" He echoes, and I can hear the leer. It sounds so fucking good.

" _Anything._ "

Brian breathes in deep, contemplating, thinking his evil thoughts. "The painty sweats."

"Get rid of them? Shred them? Incinerate them?"

"Actually," he chuckles, low and deep, "You never told me what's underneath, so it looks like I'll have to find out for myself. Leave them on. Just get a car and get to the airport by 10, okay?"

"Yeah," I say, beaming. "See you then."

"See you then."

There's something else I'd like to tell him, and I think he's wanting to say it too, but it can wait. Brian will be here soon and we can say it properly - while we touch, hug, kiss, fuck. He'll be here by 10. I can tell him then.


	2. Brian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What is there to be said, anyway? He's in New York. He's happy. I'm happy for him. We'll get through this. It's only time. That's about it. Or so I thought."
> 
> Upon realising Justin isn't coping, Brian travels to New York to see him.

After his first full day in New York, Justin called and gushed for a full hour about how fucking magical everything was. It soothed the sting of his departure, hearing him rave about the apartment and the food and the park and the galleries and just  _everything,_ everything that was bigger and brighter and better than Pittsburgh. It reminded me why I'd sent him away, and not a moment too soon. Before he'd called, I was about a second away from jumping in the car and driving through the night to haul him home and forbid him from ever leaving again.  

That urge never really left. I've missed him every day, and the only thing that gets me through is hearing from him and remembering how happy he is. And booze. And fucking. And berating my employees ( _much_ more than usual, according to Cynthia and Theodore in all their infinite wisdom). And rolling my eyes and sneering every time some asshole accuses me of missing Justin. It's none of their goddamned business. What is there to be said, anyway? He's in New York. He's happy. I'm happy for him. We'll get through this. It's only time. That's about it.

Or so I thought. He had me  _convinced_ he was happy, that everything in New York was peachy fucking keen, and that I'd done the right thing. Bullshit.  _Bullshit._ Hearing him almost break down in the goddamned grocery store was... confusing. That may be the best word for it, given the simultaneous explosion of relief and terror I felt. Relieved, that I wasn't alone in being pathetically miserable. Terrified, because we were miles and hours and fucking light-years apart, and Justin was distraught and I could do fuck all from the other end of a phone call.

So I abandoned the busted printer (apparently kicking doesn't help; who knew?) and went back to my desk, to search for flights. There was one leaving at 8.45, and by the time Justin had said yes, I was already in a cab and on my way to the airport. It wouldn't have mattered if he'd said no, I would have shown up anyway. Nothing could have kept me away after hearing him sound so anguished.

Upon touching down, the woman next to me chirped, "That was a cinch, wasn't it? Quick flights like this are a godsend." Apparently she didn't notice me grinding my teeth down to stumps, from departure to arrival, for the entire hour and a  _century_ we were on the damn plane.

But it's all worth it when I pass security and see him, waiting for me and smiling from ear to ear. Justin drops the sign he's holding (on which, in his decorative scrawl, he's written  _Mr. Kinney_ ) and runs to me. I drop my briefcase just in time to catch him. He wraps himself around me and even though he's practically crushing me, I feel like I can breathe again.

"Thank you," he whispers, squeezing me tighter.

"Ow," I grouse.

He pulls back a little and grins, eyes alight. "Shut up and take it."

I grab his hair in my fist and smash my mouth against his. Justin moans and winds his legs around my waist, and I kiss him until I forget how wretched he sounded on the phone, hoping he forgets too. It seems to be effective; when I finally release him, he's smiling brighter than I've ever seen.

"I love you," he says, kissing the corner of my mouth. "I love you so much."

I touch his face, stroke his jaw lightly, feeling the light scrape of stubble. Justin smiles softly, and leans in for another kiss. I give it to him gladly, then reply quietly, "I love you, too. Now get me the fuck out of this airport."

*

Justin gives the driver three separate sets of instructions within ten minutes of us getting in the car. First, he decides we're going to the studio so he can show me what he's been working on. Then, suddenly, he decides we have to go dancing at his new favourite club ( _"It's better than Babylon, or at least, it is now that you're here. No club is really complete without Brian Kinney.")._ When I remind him I have to be back in Pittsburgh tomorrow by midday for a client meeting, he tells the exasperated driver to just take us home. Home. Here, and not in Pittsburgh. There's the terror again, but mostly, I just feel a flood of relief. Justin always deserved better than Pittsburgh, and now he's got it.

Once we've settled where it is we're headed, Justin thanks the driver and raises the privacy screen. I bump his nose with my forefinger. "Such good manners!"

"See, you haven't  _totally_ corrupted me," he laughs.

"We'll see about that." I run my hand through his hair, which is blonde and blue and purple. "It's not just the sweats; you have paint  _everywhere._ Were you rolling around in it?"

"No, but that does give me an idea..."

I rub a spot of green paint from behind his ear. "Do tell..."

Justin glances towards the privacy screen, clearly remembering his impeccable manners. He hooks one of his legs over mine and hauls himself into my lap, kisses me, then starts whispering impossibly filthy things in my ear. I gasp, then drawl, "Stop, you'll make me blush."

"Yeah, right," Justin snorts. "You never blush."

I'm about to wholeheartedly agree, but then a devilish grin curves across his face. With mischief ripe in his voice, Justin teases, "You only blush when I'm  _romantic."_

"Do not."

"Do too." He drops a kiss to my cheek. "Wanna bet?"

I grumble 'no' at him, but he ignores me and presses his lips to my ear and starts whispering sweet nothings. I wrap my arms around his waist and hold him close, feeling his lips brush over my ear, hearing him say things that I probably ought to have said to him, had I the heart that he does. The rush through me; electrical, enlivening utterances that mean more than I can say. Justin wins the bet easily and grins all the way home about it.

*

"You have to be up in six hours if you're going to make it back for your meeting," Justin scolds, or at least I think that's what he's saying. It's hard to keep up when he's straddling me, naked and dripping with sweat, flecks of paint all over him. Purple and blue staining his hair, green and yellow splashed over his arms and legs. Perhaps I should follow up on whatever idea it was he had in the car.

As I trace the yellow flecks on his forearm with my thumb, Justin leans down and presses his chest against mine. "Brian, you need to get some sleep. I won't let you miss that meeting."

"I'll do a line or two of coke beforehand, I'll be fine."

Justin shakes his head, trying pitifully to hide a smile. I grab his face and pull him in for another kiss. "Why waste those six hours  _sleeping?_ Didn't I teach you better, Sunshine?"

"You taught me a lot," he says, and for a second I think he's conceding, but then: "For one, you taught me to take pride in my work. It's hard to do that when you're suffering from sleep deprivation."

"I wouldn't call staying up late to fuck you 'sleep deprivation', but okay, I give in," I raise my hands in surrender. "We can go to sleep. Four hours tops, though - I want to dedicate those last two to fucking your brains out again. Deal?"

Justin rolls off me and offers me his hand to shake. "Deal."

I settle back and watch as he sets the alarm and gathers the covers to spread over us. It's freezing out and now that we're still, the cold is starting to seep in. Justin turns onto his side, his back to me, and reaches for my hand. I give it to him and let him pull me close, so close that our legs and feet are tangled amidst the blankets. I bury my face against his neck and kiss it, just as he says, "Night, Bri."

*

I wake up seconds before the alarm is due to sound and find Justin curled up around me. Blissful relief rushes through me as I realise where I am and who I'm with. Of course, the relief extinguishes quickly as I realise how little time we have left together. I hasten to make our time together count.

Whether it's the beeping alarm or my mouth wrapping around his cock that wakes Justin, I don't know and I don't care. When he can't get it to stop blaring, he throws the alarm clock against the wall and begs me to keep sucking his cock. We fuck for two hours straight, until his screams are raw and hoarse, until I can hardly see straight. As we're recuperating - breathless, drenched with sweat, sticky with come - my phone rings, forcing us to return to reality. Justin runs out to get us breakfast while Cynthia snipes at me about broken printers and impromptu departures, which I only half pay attention to. I promise her I'll be back by midday, expecting her to say,  _"You'd fucking well better be."_ But she just sighs and tells me to say hi to Justin.

He shows me his sketchbook over breakfast, and I show him the drafts I'm presenting at the midday meeting. After some prodding on my part, Justin takes them and the pen I'm offering and makes notes. The problems I was desperately trying to fix last night disappear. I call Cynthia as we drive to the airport and give her instructions to relay to the art department. Justin blushes as I repeat his notes verbatim, even more so when I say, _"You_ should be my art department, Sunshine."

At the airport, he waits as I check in, then insists on walking me to the security checkpoint. I'll arrive in Pittsburgh with broken fingers for how hard he's gripping my hand in his, but I don't give a fuck. We have a few minutes left before I  _have_ to go through, and I don't intend on letting him go until the last second. So I don't. 

Right before I have to leave, Justin hugs me. He clings to me, and I can't decide whether I'd rather remember how it feels or forget it, because it's frightening. I tell him I love him, thinking it might make things better, but he just holds on tighter - and not in any good way. 

When we part, I try not to notice how stiffly he's holding himself. There's a line to clear security, and as I join it, I tell myself not to look back. I know he's still standing there. I know he's still watching me. I sure as shit know he's not smiling, which is how I'd like to remember him, and I won't be able to if I turn around and look at him.

Just as I'm about to walk through the sensor gates, my resolve weakens. I look back. Justin's standing where I left him, with his arms wrapped around himself. He's trying to smile, but he looks as bad as he sounded on the phone last night. It lands like a kick to my ribs.

"Sir?" Security is calling me through. I take one last look at Justin's miserable smile, and turn away. I ignore the ache in my chest. I clear security. I go to the terminal. I board the flight. I arrive back in Pittsburgh. The ache's still there. It won't stop.

"Welcome home," says Cynthia as I arrive at the office. I slip past her into my office, her words ringing unpleasantly in my ears.

The ache that bloomed back in New York grows, and it finally hits me: this isn't home any more, not for Justin, and definitely not for me.


	3. Lindsay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindsay visits Brian and contemplates where he and Justin are, and where they are headed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't planned on continuing this story, but I re-read it today and thought it felt somewhat unfinished. I've been thinking of writing this for a while as a one-shot but thought it might fit in well as a third chapter to this story instead.

When I enter Kinnetik, it's to the sound of Brian raging through the office, sending terrified employees scattering. In the midst of his fury, Brian storms right by me without noticing me. He zeroes in on Cynthia, snarling about the incompetence of his art department. Cynthia smiles at me and manages to steer him around in my direction as he rants and paces.

"Tell them to pull their heads out of their asses and actually follow my fucking instructions, or--" Brian stops dead in his tracks at the sight of me. "Linds?"

"Surprise?" I hold my arms out hesitantly. He shoves a file at Cynthia and comes to hug me, holding on tighter than normal. 

"What are you doing here?"

"I had a conference in Indiana," I lower my voice, confiding, "It was mindnumbingly boring. So I skipped out on the last day and came to visit you! I'm not interrupting anything important, am I?"

Brian smiles and kisses me. "Not at all. My art department is just full of braindead morons who are just thirsting for pink slips."

He rounds on Cynthia and growls, "Get them to get their shit together or so help m-"

"I'm on it," she cuts in, impressively assertive. She smiles at me and opens his office door for us. "Go and sit down, I'll bring you both some tea in a minute."

Brian relents from his rampage and leads me in to his office, taking my coat and handbag for me. "How's Gus?"

"He's wonderful. He misses you, of course," I say as we sit down on the sofa. "He won an award in class the other day - Star of the Week. His teacher says he's 'motivated, dedicated, and a force of positivity among his peers'. He's so excited to show you his trophy when we visit next."

Brian grins with pride, but I can see he's not all there today. He looks tired and worn down, just like everyone keeps saying he does. They're all worried about him. Whenever Mel and I call Deb or Michael, there's a lot of talk about Brian - how surly he is, how he won't admit to missing Justin, how he disappears and then they find out he's run off to New York, and how whenever Justin visits home, that's the only time Brian looks like himself. Any other time - like right now, for instance - he looks off. Slightly vacant, with uninviting shadows darkening his face.

We make small talk for a while, which only heightens my concern. He's clearly avoiding any mention of Justin. Everyone has warned me he can be sensitive about this; Michael said Brian has been on red-alert any time anyone utters the words 'Justin' or 'New York'. Apparently he's made a few people fear for their lives. According to Deb, Emmett was on the receiving end of several jaw-droppingly graphic threats, Ted was told he would be fired if he brought it up again, and Blake, whose brief mention of Justin provoked Brian to glare at him unflinchingly for thirty minutes straight, is now too afraid to say anything in Brian's presence at all. Everyone is walking on eggshells and praying for Justin to come home so that Brian's horrible mood can end already.

But Justin isn't coming home. I don't know if Deb and the others are fully aware of this yet, but what I know and what Brian surely knows is that Justin belongs in New York. He may not have said it in as many words, but he's not coming back to Pittsburgh. So while everyone else is fed up with Brian's stormy demeanor, I can't help but forgive it. I can't imagine what it would be like to deal with Mel being so far away. Worse yet - what if I knew she didn't want to come home? What if she decided she belonged somewhere else, somewhere far away and seemingly unreachable?

Only New York _isn't_ unreachable. Is it?

As Brian lets out a weary sigh, I decide to ditch the small talk and dig a little deeper.

"So how's Justin?" I watch him curiously, wondering if he's in the kind of mood where he'll open up or not. Very gently, I say, "Everyone says you've been spending a lot of time with him."

"I just got back yesterday," he admits, rubbing his face tiredly, the way Gus does close to bedtime. "I visited for a night."

"You were just there," I say, surprised. "I didn't know you were going again so soon."

"Neither did I," he tries to laugh, "But we were talking the other night and he... he was really upset. I had to go. I had to see him."

"Is he okay?"

Brian sighs and shakes his head. "He's pretending to be."

"It must be hard," I say, reaching over and curling my hand around his wrist. "Being apart from him."

"It's harder than I expected it to be." Brian grimaces. "I keep thinking I should-"

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Cynthia says, striding into the room with a delivery man in tow. He's carrying a huge parcel which I immediately identify as a painting from the way it's been packaged. "But this arrived from New York. Justin requested that I bring it to you immediately."

She smiles apologetically at us and confides, "He's called three times this morning to check whether it had arrived or not. I'm guessing it's important."

The delivery man sets it down across from us and Cynthia beckons him back out of the office, closing the door behind them. Brian stands up and circles the parcel curiously. I hold up and hand and warn, "Now don't go lunging for it - these need to be unwrapped carefully."

"I figured," Brian laughs, gesturing to the many, many  _fragile_ labels Justin has covered the package with. "I'll let you do the honours."

"Scissors?"

He fetches me a pair. I kneel down and get to work, managing the wrapping delicately. As I start to peel the layers away, I discover a mounted canvas. Brian helps me slide it out of the packaging, which I move aside while he sets the canvas on top of the sofa. We stand back to look at it and it almost takes my breath away.

It's Liberty Avenue under a dark night-time sky, bathed in coloured light from the street-lamps and surrounding buildings. There's an instant pang of nostalgia that hits me, the kind of longing I always get when I'm away from home. There's nothing like it. And there is nothing -  _nothing -_ like Justin's work. It is utterly awe-inspiring. There's a lot to be said about his work; that it's energetic, emotive, full of spark and sex appeal, but this piece... this is raw and heartfelt and bursting with life. I think I could stare at this piece forever, with its bold streaks of paint, the blur of anonymous pedestrians rushing by, the stars glowing distantly in the night sky, and the brilliant wash of rainbow light gleaming over the street. It's captivating.

I look at Brian and I suddenly feel I'm intruding on something very private. The expression on his face is like nothing I've ever seen. It's a mirror of this painting - raw, heartfelt, bursting with life. Bursting with love. His gaze is pinned to one section of the canvas, right in the center; I follow it, navigating through the layers and layers of frenetic detail, and there they are. Brian and Justin, standing under a street-lamp casting golden light over them. They're two tiny figures in the background, but once you find them, they're all you see. 

"There's a letter, too," Cynthia announces gently, wandering in hesitantly. She hands it to me, since Brian is fixated on the painting, trance-like in his attention. 

"Open it," Brian says, shrugging, trying to appear nonchalant and failing miserably. 

I tear open the envelope and pull out a note from Justin, scrawled on the stationery Mel and I bought him as a going away present.  _You need to write us all the time,_ I insisted, and so he sends letters all the time along with photos and postcards and parcels full of little gifts he's found for us, Gus, and J.R. Justin's letters normally fill up the page right to the margins, sometimes with script so small and intricate I'm tempted to pull out the magnifying glass. This one is brief, with big letters filling up the middle of the page.

_Brian,_

_I said I was going no place special. You changed that._

_Love always,_

_Justin_

'Love' is written emphatically, like he was pressing the pen urgently to the page; 'always', even more so. I feel like reading this aloud would be even more of an intrusion, so I hand it silently to Brian. He tears his gaze from the painting and reads it, and reads it again, the page clenched in his hands, his knuckles white.

I take another look at the painting, at the love shouting from it, bold and bright. I can't imagine how hard it must be for both of them to be so far apart. I think of what Brian might have been about to say before Cynthia came in.  _I keep thinking I should..._

_Ask him to come home?_ I'm sure the thought has occurred to Brian, but he wouldn't do that to Justin. He wouldn't want Justin sacrificing what he's working towards in New York, not ever.

_End it?_ No, there's no way. Even if Brian were that stupid, Justin would never let him get away with it. They're in too deep now.

_Go to him?_

Go to him. Of course. Brian and I used to fantasise about New York together, about the kind of life one could live there. We had a lot of conversations like that; dreamy wonderings about what our lives could be like somewhere else. Paris, London, Vienna, and Stockholm also made my shortlist (after Brian made me cull it from my top thirty to my top five). He would talk about places like Milan and Chicago fleetingly, but we both always came back to New York. It was our fantasy city, our ultimate goal. It's out of reach for me, but it's certainly within Brian's grasp. He's conquered Pittsburgh. If he stays here, he'll stagnate. He may not always believe this of himself, but he's destined for bigger and better things than are on offer here. And now with Justin in New York... well, if this isn't a case of perfect timing, I don't know what is.

I suspect, though, that Brian may be in need of a nudge. I'll gladly give it to him.

I touch Brian's arm and he starts, like he'd forgotten I was there. "Go to him."

It's then I know that's exactly what he was going to say, because he looks at me with this wonderful mix of surprise and warmth, like he's grateful for how well I know him. I smile at him and urge, "Go to him and be with him there. You two could really be something there, Brian."

"It's a big move," he says dubiously. "Kinnetik-"

"Is doing great. You said so last week when you called and bragged about the last quarter like the smug bastard you are," I squeeze his arm. "You could relocate. You could open a second branch."

He frowns thoughtfully, his eyes flickering with ambition. I decide to pour gas on that fire. "You could have it all... New York, like we always dreamed, and I _know_ you could conquer it. And Justin could have everything he's ever wanted - his art, his life in New York, and you. Imagine sharing all of that."

The flicker in his eyes turns into a roaring blaze. There he is - Brian Kinney, full of passion and hunger and determination. I grin at him and repeat firmly, "Go to him."

Brian glances at the painting then at me, with a huge smile spreading across his face. He folds up Justin's letter and tucks it inside the breast of his suit. "Can I take you out for dinner tonight?"

"I'd love that."

"Good. I'll pick you up at seven," he says, standing up and offering me his hand. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

"Get to it," I say, laughing as he swoops in to kiss me. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me twice. Like Justin's painting screams 'I love you', so does this. As he rests his forehead against mine for a moment, I whisper, "I know you can do this."

He smiles and kisses me one last time, a gentle  _thank you._ I return his smile then step away, going to get my things. As I gather my handbag and take one last look at Justin's painting, Brian strides over to his desk and stabs the intercom button on his phone. "Cynthia - be in my office in ten minutes with Theodore. Tell him to come prepared. We have work to do."

As I leave Kinnetik, it's to the sounds of Brian and Cynthia rushing into action. The concern I felt for Brian is replaced with a beautiful sense of certainty. I know he can do this. I think of how happy Justin will be and can't wipe the smile from my face.

With time to kill, I head over to the diner to see Deb. As I hit Liberty Avenue, I stop and take it all in. There is some distant sense of nostalgia to be found here, but in the harsh light of day, surrounded by strangers, I realise this isn't really home anymore. Mel isn't here. Our children are growing up somewhere else. Justin is far away, and soon Brian will be hot on his heels. Familiar though this place may be, home is somewhere else now - for me and Mel, and for Brian and Justin.

I stand and stare at one of the distant street-lamps, like the one in the painting that shone all that gorgeous light over the two of them, imagining them standing there and then realising that moment has passed. I'm tempted to mourn it, in that sentimental way of mine, but I stop myself. That moment may have passed, but Justin has immortalised it perfectly. They have a whole future to look forward to - new moments to share, other special places to find, a whole life together. Of that, I feel completely sure.

I take a deep breath and shake myself free from my sentimental musings. Smiling ceaselessly, I step into the crowd and become part of the blur as we all rush down Liberty Avenue, heading wherever we will.


End file.
